In whisper and hiss, the radio voices ghost out;Thirty lightyears now on a fading front From that point where a spark jumped the dark gap,The merest fraction of the whole. In the dust seaOf our tidebringer, the crumpled spider-formStill bears the bold proclamation from all mankind;The faint fingerings of solar wind or sunspot stormCannot stir or blur the footprint edges or tatter the flag.But our reach outdid our grasp- this sterile sceneAnd five others akin, alone remain. Yet, consider:The Moon stood bright above for eons, before evenThat first prehuman dreamer trembled on treetopReaching for the prize. The stillness will wait up there,Unchanging, for the time it takes for us to return.-7/20/1999

I sometimes forget the enormous impact that Apollo 11, and the space program in general, had on me as I grew up. I desperately wanted to be an astronaut (hell, I still do). Then things like this bring it back home. I don't care if it was a massive Cold War publicity stunt. It became symbolically so much more- something akin to that engraving of the medieval philosopher poking his head out beyond the dome of the sky to see creation the way it really is.